Authors: Christine Harris
Baptism of Fire
âA shadow, a swift movement, a shout; it was quick. instinctively, she raised her arm to protect herself'
Hannah Stanton has no family now, except for these strangers who live among cannibals. Her first impression of the island is of white sand and waving palms but the jungle hides deception and death. Who is the mysterious figure watching from the darkness and will Hannah's defiant spirit wither under the glare of her missionary uncle and aunt?
Hannah needs all her strength to survive Baptism of Fire.
For David, who holds my hand
.
âYou'd better 'ang on tight, Miss. Rough patch ahead!' Jenkins pointed to a line of breakers.
Hannah groaned. She longed to be on land where nothing rocked, splashed or threatened to sink. Twenty days at sea was enough. She had spent much of the voyage, stomach churning, with her head dangling over the side of the ketch.
Now she could hear the roar as waves hit the coral reef. She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. The second rowboat carrying supplies and her luggage was still behind. Everything she owned was in that small craft; her books, paint box, every last souvenir of her mother and father.
âSteady now, mates!' Jenkins called.
Heart pounding in her ears, Hannah gripped the gunwale. As they entered the white water, the boat jumped sideways, rode a large wave, then dropped with a
whump
. Face tense with
concentration, Jenkins fought the tiller. It had a life of its own and wrestled against his hands. Hannah stared at the backs of the two sailors at the oars. The muscles in their necks stood out, their forearms rigid, as they strained to keep control of the boat.
Surf thundered around them. Spray shot up into her face, and she wiped the salty water from her eyes with one sleeve. Shouts came from the sailors in the other boat. Hannah pressed her lips together, smothering a scream. Beneath that churning water was the reef, with its jagged rocks and razor-sharp coral, waiting to slice the hull open. Had she travelled all this way only to be ignominiously drowned when she was so close?
Another wave attacked the small boat, shooting it upwards and forward. Then, as suddenly as they had entered the rough water, they left it behind.
Hannah still held on, her knuckles white. It took a few seconds to realise the danger had passed. This side of the reef, hardly a ripple disturbed the surface while only a short distance behind, the sea was agitating into a
temper. One by one, she unclenched her fingers then craned her neck to see the fate of the other craft. It had also passed the reef: her belongings were safe. She sighed and tried to steady her breathing.
Jenkins winked at her. âThere she be, Miss. Your island.'
Hannah stared ahead; her first glimpse of the wild place that was her new home. As the sailors rowed closer, the palm trees grew taller. The giant trunks leant over each other like friends, waving their fronds in the air.
The whitest sand she had ever seen met the edge of the sea. She had to squint against the glare. There were thatched roofs among the trees, and thin coils of smoke rose above them. The island beach was clustered with dark figures, but where were her mysterious uncle and aunt?
As they drew close to land, Hannah longed to reboard the ketch and sail back to Australia. She dared not turn for a last glimpse. She didn't want to be here and, judging from the cold tone of the letter sent to her parents' lawyer, Uncle Henry
was not exactly enthusiastic about having her. But where else could she go? She had no family now, except for these strangers who lived amongst cannibals.
The soft grinding of sand on keel announced the small boat's arrival. Henderson, the first mate, leapt out and landed with a splash. A young Fijian man with hair like a giant frizzy balloon dashed into the water and held the bow steady.
Hannah knew she was staring, but couldn't stop herself. She had never seen so much bare skin. The Fijian securing the boat wore only a cloth tied around his middle and looped down at the front like a small curtain.
Even the women wore only the scantiest of grass fringes around their hips. Naked children rolled in the sand then ran squealing into the water to wash off the grains, only to dash back and cast themselves down again. Men and women alike were decorated with arm bands, ankle bands, and necklaces of shell and bone. Many of the people had their faces painted red and white, patterned in stripes and spots. Fowls squawked and a pig snuffled in the sand at the edge of the water.
Hands reached out. Hannah flinched.
âIt's the custom, Miss,' Jenkins reassured her, âThey're waitin' to carry you on shore. Don't want them pretty little boots wet now, does yer?' He lay his musket across his lap and patted it as though it were a favoured pet. âDon't you worry none, Miss Stanton.'
Two men signalled to Hannah that they would carry her and offered their crossed arms as a seat. Reluctantly she agreed. The men's skin glistened and gave off a peculiar aroma, not unpleasant; just unusual. She hesitated, then steadied herself with a gentle touch on the arms each side of her. Their skin felt hot from the sun, and strangely oily. Back ramrod straight, she endured agonies of embarrassment as they carried her to shore, their massive hairdos tickling her face.
Carefully they set her down on the beach and dashed back into the water as the second rowboat, loaded dangerously, arrived. They talked and laughed loudly as they removed the luggage. A barrel dropped into the shallow water, prompting another burst of laughter. She caught her breath, hoping they wouldn't damage any of her belongings.
Hannah stood on the beach, facing a crowd of dark bodies. Suddenly she felt too pale, too covered, too different. There should be two other white faces here: those of her new family.
A Fijian woman with pendulous breasts and massive shoulders walked around Hannah in a full circle, inspecting her closely. She made a clicking noise with her tongue. Hannah wished she could understand her language so she could speak to her.
The woman had a hole in one stretched earlobe, jammed with a clay pipe and a small sachet which Hannah assumed contained tobacco. She restrained herself from wincing as she wondered how the hole had been made.
Suddenly the woman grinned, revealing black gaps where teeth were missing. She took a scarlet flower from her hair and offered it to Hannah. Touched, and a shade relieved at being welcomed so kindly, she smiled and accepted the gift.
A stir began at the back of the crowd and they parted like the Red Sea. A white man, dressed in a black suit and hat, mutton chop whiskers almost meeting at his chin, walked forward with a confident stride, his eyes taking in every detail of
Hannah's appearance.
Hot pins and needles shot over her skin. Uncle Henry looked so like her father. He was a similar height, had the same hazel eyes, long nose and cleft chin. But there the resemblance ended. This face was stern and controlled. Her father's face had been full of good humour, his eyes often hazy with private dreams, and his hair had hung loose over his forehead. To him, life had been too wonderful to worry about things like combing hair or sewing on buttons. Uncle Henry was older, colder, and his smile didn't reach his eyes. âWelcome to Fiji. I trust you had a pleasant journey.'
Hannah shook his outstretched hand and even in this hot sun his skin felt cool. âIs Aunt C ⦠Constance here?' She stumbled over the name, feeling embarrassed about calling a stranger by her Christian name. The suggestion of a frown tickled Uncle Henry's features then disappeared.
He stepped to one side. Waiting patiently a few paces behind was a woman dressed in a blue serge skirt and dolman jacket, with a matching bonnet tied under her chin. Aunt Constance also shook hands but held Hannah's with both of hers and
smiled warmly.
âMama, Mama.' A child of about three tugged at Aunt Constance's skirt.
âThis is Deborah,' explained Aunt Constance.
Then a thin boy stepped forward. Hannah guessed he was about ten or eleven. âHello, I'm Joshua.'
There had been nothing in the letter about cousins.
âIt would be appropriate to give thanks for your safe arrival,' said Uncle Henry.
Hannah was startled when the man dropped to his knees, followed by his wife and son. The little girl continued to stand, clinging to her mother's wide skirts. Uncle Henry gave Hannah a stern look and she also bent her knees to touch the soft sand. She began to wish that she hadn't worn her best dress.
âDear Lord â¦' began Uncle Henry.
Hannah and her parents had sometimes attended church. It seemed normal and proper to pray under stained glass and an arched roof, but kneeling on the beach conversing with the Almighty made Hannah feel uncomfortable, as
though she were doing something private in a public place.
She stole a glance at her new family, their eyes closed and hands clasped. Hannah could hear the exasperated instructions of the crew trying to unload the small boats. The helpers ignored them and continued chattering and having fun with the luggage. Further along the beach, some lads wrestled with exaggerated vigour. Hannah bit her lip to stop herself from smiling.
Perhaps Uncle Henry really was pleased to see her because he thanked God for an exceedingly long time. At last honour was satisfied and a firm âAmen' heralded release. With one hand, Hannah brushed sand from her lilac dress and paused when she saw stains on the soft material.
âCoconut oil,' Joshua explained. He nodded at the watching Fijians. âThey rub it into their skin.'
Hannah took another peek at the shiny dark bodies. That explained the aroma she'd noticed.
Joshua beamed as he pointed to the palms behind. âHave you ever tasted a coconut? I can get one for you â¦'
Uncle Henry stepped forward. âThank you,
Joshua.' The boy retreated into silence.
They waited awkwardly while Uncle Henry strode to the water's edge to speak to the sailors. Hannah wished she could think of something to say but her mind was blank, her tongue like a block of wood.
Uncle Henry returned and spoke to his wife. âThere will be five extra for dinner this evening, Mrs Stanton. But first the men must finish unloading the boats, and they want to barter for fresh fruit and some fowls.'
Aunt Constance nodded.
âI have made it clear that under no circumstances is there to be trade in muskets or the beverage of Satan.' He turned his gaze onto Hannah. âAnd now, we shall take you to your new home. The mission house is simple but sufficient. The Lord provides only as much as we need.'
Hannah wondered what would happen if someone decided they needed something and the Lord disagreed. She had a sneaking suspicion who would win.
âThis way.' Uncle Henry nodded towards the thatched roofs among the trees. âYou will need
today to rest and unpack.'
The thought of a bed that didn't rock all night was bliss. And there would be fresh water. On board the ketch, water was stored in a huge tank and scooped out with a dipper attached to a slimy string. Hannah didn't know what had been stored in that tank before but the brownish water had a disagreeable taste and aroma.
She sniffed the brilliant red flower the woman had given her, then twiddled it in her fingers, watching in fascination as the pollen flicked this way and that, then turned her head to watch as Jenkins leapt sideways to prevent a container tumbling into the sea. Her mouth twitched when he shouted one of his more repeatable phrases, âRoll me in pickles and mustard â¦'
Uncle Henry cleared his throat rather loudly. âLater we'll discuss a work roster for you, Hannah. The Devil makes mischief for idle hands.'